


Nothing Burns Like the Cold

by Lady_Vibeke



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Bad Puns, Cabin Fic, Caretaking, Cinnamon Roll Barry Allen, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Protective Leonard Snart, Sharing a Bed, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21597520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Vibeke/pseuds/Lady_Vibeke
Summary: “Uhm, Snart?” he calls, sounding slightly uncertain. “There's only one bed.”“We're lucky thereisone,” Leonard remarks as he walks up to him. What did the kid expect? A four-star hotel with two queens and a flat screen?“So?”“So what?”Barry turns around, looking honestly puzzled. “How are we gonna sleep?”“Tight,” Leonard deadpans. “Not figuratively, I'm afraid.”ORBarry and Leonard. Caught in a blizzard. One cabin, one bed. All the fluffy tropes.
Relationships: Barry Allen/Leonard Snart
Comments: 21
Kudos: 431





	Nothing Burns Like the Cold

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a quote from G.R.R. Martin.
> 
> I've proof-read this a few times and fixed most typos, but if something escaped, please, forgive me.

If Leonard said he was expecting to meet the Scarlet Speedster in the middle of a snowy forest, it would be a lie, and yet, when he exits the cave with his pockets a few ounces heavier and finds none other than Red and his gloriously tight suit waiting for him, he can't really say he's surprised.

“Barry Allen in the flesh,” he greets, purposely allowing the sound of _'flesh'_ to soften on his tongue, his drawl turning it into something else, something that makes Barry's eyes sparkle in badly stifled amusement. “Trying to catch me cold, Scarlet?”

There is a funny parade of expressions on Barry's face, all replaced too quickly by the next for Leonard to pick them all up – confusion, stupor, doubt, more confusion...

“Are you okay?”

Barry's tentative tone begs to be mocked. Here, in the middle of nowhere, in the beginning of a snow storm, the Flash, underdressed and shivering like a wet kitten, has the nerve to ask if _Captain Cold_ is okay.

“Peachy.” Leonard tucks his hands into his pockets, knuckles brushing lovingly over the handful of jewels he stuffed in there. It took him over ten years to come back to get these, and he's not letting anyone ruin everything. “May I ask what made you think otherwise?”

Barry stutters. “Cisco tracked the thermal reading of your Gun, and since it was an unusual location I thought-”

“- you'd check up on me? How sweet.”

Behind that ridiculous mask of his, Barry is obviously starting to reconsider the situation. Leonard is, if not exactly well equipped, at the very least wearing adequate clothing for this sort of weather and place; Barry just zipped here without any real plan except sticking his nose into Leonard's private affairs and maybe he's starting to realise Leonard didn't need any rescue. It's actually more like the other way around, now, with the snow thickening by the moment and the temperature dropping as the sun starts going down.

“Why are you here, in the middle of a snow storm?”

Leonard narrows his eyes with a savvy smirk. “The snow storm is a collateral damage. I left something behind, a few years ago, that I needed to retrieve.”

“Something stolen, I bet.”

“None of your business,” Leonard replies amiably. He lowers his goggles from his forehead to protect his eyes from the flurry of snowflakes blowing in his face, then secures the hood of his parka more tightly around his head. “You should zip away, kid. It's going to get frosty very soon around here.”

Even being the one who came unprepared, Barry somehow manages to worry about anything but himself:

“What about you?”

The sneer that starts forming in Leonard's mind fades before it reaches his lips; what he gives Barry instead is an uncharacteristically mild half smile.

“I'm a resourceful man,” he assures. “Thanks for your concern, though.”

He stalls, confident that Barry will get the message; the kid, however, doesn't seem keen on leaving him here. So Leonard crosses his arms and tilts his head, just to renew his invitation without sounding too rude.

Barry is still reluctant, but nods with a sigh that turns into a puff of steam. He turns to cast a fleeting glance back to Leonard before-

Nothing.

Barry isn't moving, paralysed on the spot in an awkward sprinting position.

“What's wrong, Red? You seem a little _frozen.”_

And he _is,_ almost literally: a patina of frost is starting to form all over him and where Barry's skin is exposed the cold is turning it the same colour as the suit.

Barry tries to move again, his body tense in concentration, but nothing happens. He looks up at Leonard in dismay, his frantic breath a thick cloud in front of his face.

“I- I can't-” The lost twitch of Barry's brows does something to Leonard's stomach. “My powers aren't working.”

Leonard is determined to stick to his plan: reach his shelter, spend the night, get back to town. No part of said plan involves an incautious speedster.

“Call your minions.”

The laugh Barry lets out sounds more like a nervous cough. “The comms died a while ago. They don't go well with low temperatures.”

If his face wasn't so red already, Leonard could probably see him blush.

“They're not the only ones, apparently,” he jabs, and it's a little cruel to twist the knife, but he has a feeling he knows where this is going and if he has to fuck up his plans, at least he wants to make the most of it.

Barry has his arms wrapped around himself and his lips are stubbornly sealed into a thin line. “I wasn't expecting the weather to change so quickly, okay?”

For a superhero, the kid is dangerously naïve.

“First rule of the mountains: always be ready for _any_ weather,” says Leonard, and Barry recoils defensively:

“Your attire isn't exactly top-notch, either, you know?”

“I, unlike you, happen to have a plan.”

“Does this plan involve somewhere safe to spend the night?”

The amount of despair in Barry's eyes is hilarious. Leonard would be enjoying this a lot more if this wasn't ruining what should have been a smooth, fail-proof hit-and-run job. And if Barry wasn't so genuinely distressed.

“Luckily for you, it does.”

“And you're not gonna leave me here to die, right?” asks Barry nervously.

The very thought that he needs to make sure is a little offensive: the two of them might not be on the best terms, but Leonard is appalled by the insinuation that Barry thinks he _would_ abandon him in a moment of need.

It would make sense – it would be very _convenient,_ actually: the Flash tragically perishing by nature's hand (no one to blame, no one to accuse) leaving Central without its hero. It should be easy, it _could_ be easy, but Leonard is not so good to deceive himself: if he abandons Barry here, he'll be back looking for him within minutes, so he might as well save both of them time and trouble and cut to the part when he drags him to his refuge.

“I like you more than I should, Scarlet, and you know that all too well,” he scoffs in an unnecessarily harsh tone. He's not sure if this harshness is meant to be directed to Barry or to himself.

Barry gives him a hopeful look that seems to say _'Really?' _and it's touching in a way Leonard wasn't prepared to face. With a sigh, he takes all his stoic resolution and trademark heartlessness, crumples them into a ball and throws them away for the snow to bury.

Oh, he's so going to regrets this.

“It's quite a hike,” he says. “So I hope your delicate meta-human constitution can take it.”

  
  


*

  
  


The thing about Barry's meta-human constitution is that extreme cold seems to weaken it to a point Barry can barely walk. Leonard is no expert, but he guesses that a body with a superspeed requires as much energy to keep going as it requires to protect itself from dire conditions, so Barry's physique is probably slowly shutting down in order to preserve itself. Leonard takes a mental note to give this idiot a proper talk about risk assessment and responsible decisions.

He half carries Barry for a couple of miles through the frozen wind and the ankle-high snow that is rapidly rising. He keeps talking to him about stupid, random things, which Barry absently answers without putting too much thought in it, too tired to really pay attention. As long as he stays awake, Leonard will accept any nonsense.

By the time they reach the cabin, Barry is covered head to toe by a thick layer of frost and barely conscious. Leonard has to shake him to make sure he can stand on his own when he leaves him by the door to go looking for the key.

It takes a few attempts: he shovels handfuls of snow to uncover the rocks in front of the house and lifts one, two, five, until he gets to the right one and finds the key hidden beneath it.

“Why do you have a safe-house in the middle of a forest?” Barry asks, voice thin and fatigued, as he gets pushed inside.

Leonard grins. “Never said it was mine.”

“You knew where the spare key was!”

“You're offending my intelligence, Scarlet. Everyone hides spare keys under some rock.”

He shoves Barry into the closest chair and throws him a plaid he collects from the armchair across the room. The place is small, but it's a good thing: it's going to be easier to warm up.

“We're gonna need some firewood if we don't wanna freeze our asses out, tonight.”

Barry is still attempting to wrap the plaid around himself, with scarce results: his movements are slow and clumsy. With a groan, Leonard snatches the plaid from his hand, meeting zero resistance, and drapes it over his shoulders. Barry offers him a grateful smile.

“Where are we going to find viable firewood under all this snow?”

Leonard quirks a brow. “You're not familiar with life in the woods, are you?”

“Why would I be?” shrugs Barry. He's gradually regaining a little lucidity.

Leonard tsks. _Unbelievable._ “Even I spent a couple of summers in a cabin like this, and my childhood _sucked._ What's your excuse?”

Barry is a trembling mess. He tries to glare, but his chattering teeth ruin the dramatic effect.

Leonard whines inwardly.

_He's cute._

How is he supposed to snark out on this helpless half-frozen puppy? It's not even fun, like this.

Leonard pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, his brain buzzing with the calculations of how many wrong turns this predicament can take, and curses himself for his own weakness.

“I'll check the back,” he announces. “There's always a stash of wood. You stay here and see if there's something warmer than that sexy suit of yours.”

“It's not- My suit is not sexy!” Barry fumbles and, duh. Yes, _so cute._ Damn him.

Leonard gives him a sly chuckle before heading outside: “Maybe it's just the content, then.”

When he gets back with an armful of wood, he finds Barry by the large chest of drawers next to the main door, struggling to button a flannel shirt at least three sizes too large. The jeans he put on, too, are too large and sag comically around his slender frame. At least he seems to have regained his basic functionality.

“You look like baby Lisa when she used to try on Mick's clothes.”

Barry's reply comes with a little grin.

“So I probably look incredibly cute?”

Leonard expects a flirtatious look, but all he gets is the most genuine and disarming smile he's ever seen. He shakes his head and kneels by the fireplace to pile the wood inside it.

Why does he even _try?_

As soon as the fire starts crackling, Barry rushes by it and extends his hands, moaning in relief.

“I don't know if I'll ever get this ice out of my bones.”

Leonard tosses another few logs on the pile, then wipes his hands on his pants and rises to his feet.

“I might have a rapid solution, but I doubt you'd be up to it.”

“Which is?”

He deliberately brushes against Barry's side as he moves, but Barry is too busy trying to soak up as much heat as possible to even acknowledge that.

“It's embarrassing that you even need to _ask.” _Leonard would laugh if the kid didn't look so adorably pathetic. He puts his hands on Barry's shoulders and squeezes playfully, looking him straight in the eye. “You're depressingly impermeable to innuendos.”

Barry blinks. “What innuendos?”

“Exactly.” With one last squeeze, Leonard's hands fall away, and he turns away before Barry can see his smile. He really shouldn't be so charmed by this utter lack of receptivity.

Leonard takes off his parka and sets in on a chair to dry. Barry abandoned his suit on the floor and now the frost is melting away, pooling all over the floor. Leonard collects the suit and drapes it over another chair.

“Fetch yourself another blanket, you idiot,” he snarls when he notices Barry is still trembling despite the dry clothes and the fire burning.

Barry makes a surprised face, as if this was an exceptionally clever idea he could have never come up with. _Damn,_ Leonard muses, _he must be really beat._

Barry has barely opened the door to the small bedroom when he stops dead in his track.

“Uhm, Snart?” he calls, sounding slightly uncertain. “There's only one bed.”

“We're lucky there _is_ one,” Leonard remarks as he walks up to him. What did the kid expect? A four-star hotel with two queens and a flat screen?

“So?”

“So what?”

Barry turns around, looking honestly puzzled. “How are we gonna sleep?”

“Tight,” Leonard deadpans. “Not figuratively, I'm afraid.”

A hint of panic flashes across Barry's face. “You mean _together?”_

“Why not? I thought I was your type.”

“You're so hilarious,” Barry scowls and keeps staring at Leonard pointedly, as if expecting that this could change the state of things, or Leonard's answer.

Leonard is not impressed.

“Feel free to sleep on the floor, if my company is so disturbing,” he says pleasantly. “Don't blame me if you turn into a pretty icicle overnight.”

“But the fire-”

“- is barely gonna be enough to keep the temperature above survival minimum.” Which is true: the cabin may be small but without gas to turn on the heating, they're going to need all the body head they can share to pass the night. “We have two options: huddle together in that scary, tiny bed or let ourselves freeze to the bone. Now, I don't know about you, but I'd love to get out of here with all my limbs still intact. I happen to be quite _attached_ to them.”

“Oh my god.” Despite everything, Barry laughs. “Is there anything you can't pun about?”

“Not really. It doesn't require that much _pun-_deration.”

Barry laughs again. There are snowflakes trapped between his eyelashes; they glisten in the dim light, slowly melting into little droplets that wet the red splotches on Barry's cheeks every time he blinks.

Leonard looks away, startled by the shadow of _something_ curling within his chest.

“Still haven't warmed up?” he asks, just to give himself something else to think about. Bringing Barry here definitely wasn't a good idea. On the other hand, letting Barry die out there wouldn't have been a good idea, either, and it's like a contest of bad ideas is happening around Leonard, because (also not a good idea) he's placing his hand on Barry's cheek to check his temperature and now he kinda doesn't want to let go.

Somehow, Barry's body is managing a seemingly impossible balance between hot and cold, because the kid is _burning_ but he's still shuddering unrelentlessly and it's such a sorry sight it's hard to even look at him without getting second-hand shivers.

“I kinda feel like I'll never be warm again.”

Leonard senses a big red flag coming his way. Seeing Barry so meek and defenceless is giving him feelings that span from protective to dirty and back, and encase such a wide range of in-between hues that it's hard to figure out how he actually feels.

“A hot shower would help you, if the gas tank wasn't empty,” he says. His hand is still there, on Barry's cheek, and it takes an insane amount of willpower to draw it back, balled into a tight fist that falls at his side. “Let's check the cupboard, maybe there's some soup we can heat up on the fire. It's easier to warm up from the inside.”

Barry gets the blanket from the bedroom and sits by the fire place as Leonard starts rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. Along with canned soups, he finds some tea bags and even a jar of coffee.

“You're good at this,” Barry notes while Leonard fishes a small pan from under the sink. “Taking care of people.”

Leonard examines the pan and decides it's clean enough to use.

“Only the ones I care about,” he replies, then realises what he just said and freezes. Whatever big deal he feared Barry would make out of it, he shouldn't have worried: Barry just keeps gazing into the fire and merely lets out a faint, uninterested: “Oh.”

Leonard leans with a shoulder on the fireplace wall, arms crossed.

“Why are you like this, Barry?”

He doesn't know if he's complaining or just asking a rhetorical question.

Barry looks up at him, the bites of the cold standing in stark contrast against his pale face. He looks like a child who played in the snow for too long.

“Like this how?”

And Leonard _tries_ to keep any trace of fondness from his voice, but something still slips despite his efforts.

“So infuriatingly _dense.”_

Barry frowns.

“Dense?”

“As this cheap bean and broccoli soup,” says Leonard as he flips the can in the air and catches it with without even looking. He casts Barry a quick, condescending glance accompanied by a smirk. “I shall pretend it's because you're not in your best shape, though I have a feeling you'd have a hard time catching the drift even in more favourable circumstances.”

Barry keeps staring blankly at him. He's visibly tired.

“You really enjoy being cryptic and mysterious.” His voice is croaky. The soup will do him good.

Leonard opens the can and pours its entire content into the pan.

“My sweet, naïve, agonisingly oblivious Barry...” he chants as he approaches to settle the pan as close as possible to the fire. “Only you could think I'm being _cryptic.”_

He meets Barry's confused eyes and grins. Oh, what he's gotten himself into. He's been caught and he set the trap himself. What a fool.

It takes a couple of minutes for the soup to warm. When it's ready, Leonard wraps up the pan into a towel and places it directly into Barry's lap.

After the first couple of spoonfuls, Barry closes his eyes and moans contentedly. Leonard can't fight the smile that tugs at his lips.

“Better?”

Barry nods over another spoonful. “Mmh.”

“How's the rest of you?”

“My throat is sore. I think I'm coming down with something.”

“You don't say?”

Leonard wonders (and grimaces at his own cheesiness) if someone's ever told this kid how irresistible he looks when he's feverish – the flush in his cheeks, the hazy languor of his eyes, half hidden beneath the lids, heavy with exhaustion...

When Barry is done, Leonard takes the pan and sets it on the floor. Barry is lax, almost unresponsive. He seems to have trouble keeping his head up. Leonard pulls him up, holds him as he walks him to the other room.

“Let's get you into bed, come on.”

It's only a few feet, but Barry sways all the way there.

“I think I caught a cold,” he mumbles with his head resting over Leonard's shoulder.

Leonard snickers to himself because... oh, the irony!

“Indeed you have.”

“A pretty bad one,” Barry adds, and, seriously, if he wanted to kill Leonard he could have just mercifully shot him or something.

“I hoped you were gonna say sexy, but I can't argue _pretty_ and _bad,_ either.”

“Uh?”

Of course Barry doesn't get it. Not the Leonard was expecting him to.

“Never mind.”

He shouldn't even be so okay with this – this whole thing. He was never meant to get close to the Scarlet Speedster, but he was okay with being close to him as long as it didn't give him any particular thoughts. Now, though? He eases Barry down to the bed and finds any sort of excuses to touch him (You're sweating. Are you okay? Let me help you.) and the more he touches his the more he wants to touch him, to _feel_ him.

So when it comes to tucking Barry under the covers, Leonard sits by him and waits, trying to decide what to do and how to do it.

“I understand if you're not comfortable with this,” he mutters with a hand brushing over Barry's hip. “But you need to warm up. I'm not gonna do anything you don't want me to do, so it's up to you: will these blankets do or do you need more?”

“Where are you going to sleep if not here?”

“Don't worry about that, just answer the question.”

Barry looks at him with hazy eyes, then shuts them and rolls his head to one side over the pillow, exposing the tender skin of his neck and the tendons underneath it.

The most primitive, instinctual part of Leonard's mind wanders to dark thoughts, contemplating the marks he could leave on that creamy complexion – bites, bruises, grazes, imagining the feeling of that hot, salty skin under his tongue, between his teeth.

He immediately chases the thought away, ashamed of himself. Barry is vulnerable and he's not going to take any advantage of him, though he's strongly tempted to. He's better than that: if he ever gets to get anywhere with Barry, it's because Barry _asks_ him to. Any other scenario is not an option.

“Stay.”

He feels Barry's finger over the back of his hand, stroking reassuringly.

_Still a very bad idea,_ he tells himself as he slips under the covers and lies down next to him. Face to face, he observes Barry intently, trying to find any doubt in him, but all he sees is languid green eyes smiling gratefully at him.

If temptation had a face, it would be Barry Allen's face right now.

Leonard should get closer to actually provide comfort – close enough for Barry to curl against him and actually absorb his body heat – but he wants to be careful, even if Barry isn't showing any sign of discomfort.

“Do we need to discuss practicalities?”

“Such as?”

“Who sleeps on the wall side. Spooning allowed: yes or no...”

“What?”

Leonard rolls his eyes. “Call me old fashioned, but I like to respect people's boundaries.”

Barry licks his chapped lips, frowning. “You have no problem with robbing people but you respect their boundaries?”

“PSA,” Leonard retorts dryly. “Physical contact is a very personal matter. Some of us are not comfortable with being touched impromptu.”

He was more aggressive than he intended to. He's used to people taking the liberty to invade his personal space at their own leisure and some of them lost a limb or two for daring too much. He's okay with physical contact as long as he has a chance to grant it and needs to make sure Barry is okay with this, too.

On his part, Barry he's probably never even considered the option, given his surprise.

“Oh. I'd never-” He bites his lower lip, looking guilty. “I'll try to remember that.”

“So, how are we doing this?”

Barry sighs. “I'm so cold I don't really care anymore.”

There's a little throb of triumph in Leonard's heart and he firmly chooses to ignore it. Barry needs to get better, this is his priority; anything else can wait, even if this means it'll have to wait forever.

“Move to this side, “ he sighs in return. “You'll get more warmth from the fire.

So they switch positions and readjust. Leonard spoons Barry from behind, rubbing his hand up and down his arm to warm him up.

“Is this okay?”

Barry exhales a long, blissful breath that sends a rush of blood throughout Leonard's body. “It's actually much _much_ better. Thank you.”

He falls asleep within two minutes.

Leonard holds him close. He does his best to commit this to memory, every little thing, every inch of his body against Barry's, their fingers tangled above Barry's chest.

Leonard wishes he was still the man who would have let the Flash die in a snowstorm and brag about it.

But he isn't.

Now he's the man who'd rescue his nemesis and accidentally lose control of his own feelings in the process.

  
  


*

  
  


Barry sleeps.

Leonard doesn't.

He doesn't know how to live with the awareness that what he always safely labelled as a crush is now slipping into something much less innocuous.

A crush he can live with, but this? This tightness in his chest, this pang of longing he feels and won't relent? He didn't sign up for any of this.

Still, as he holds Barry while he sleeps, he can't seem to find anything wrong in it: nothing feels awkward or out of place; nothing feels like it _shouldn't_ be happening.

He doesn't remember letting down his guard, and he feels twice as betrayed by his own judgement when he realises that, in fact, he's not so sure he's ever actually guarded himself from Barry Allen, not even in their early days. He didn't think he'd need to watch his own back from someone like Barry and this, he guesses, was his first rookie mistake. He let the kid in, let him set his roots – so gently, so quietly – and now here he is, tangled (both physically and emotionally) to someone he's not even supposed to tolerate, let alone... _let alone..._

He rests his head against the nape of Barry's neck, feeling defeated without even having put up a real fight. This is all his own doing and he has no one but himself to blame.

He's the fool.

He's the idiot who let it happen.

And now-

He's always had a feeling he and Scarlet have been walking on a line of could-have-beens since the very first moment, when they hardly knew anything about each other, and yet _something_ was already there.

They could have been friends.

(If they hadn't been on opposite sides.)

They could have been _more._

(If they had been brave enough to take a leap of faith and _try.)_

They could have been everything, could have had it all.

(If they hadn't been so used to getting half of anything and being content with it, because it could have been less. Could have been _nothing.)_

In another lifetime, there would have been so many possibilities, so many chances. But in this lifetime, all they have is a string of _maybes_ they will probably never have the guts to explore. A hero and a villain, this is not how tales with happy endings begin.

It could have been different.

It could have been easier.

But.

_But._

So many _buts._

“You owe me, Red,” he murmurs, angry with himself for his lack of caution – or, rather, his lack of intuition. He should have known himself better than this. He should have known a situation like this could easily spiral out of control.

Barry stirs, wiggles back against Leonard. “Mmm?”

Leonard stills as Barry's thumb starts tracing ghosting circles over his hand.

“Nothing,” he whispers in his hair. “Go back to sleep.”

Barry turns under Leonard's arm; he's sweating and his breath is ragged, heavy. He starts moving as if to cuddle up to Leonard but something refrains him

“Snart?” he mumbles, gripping Leonard's sweater experimentally. “Can I- Can we-”

In between the lines, Leonard figures out it's a request to get closer.

“Cold feet, Barry?” he teases. He closes his hand over Barry's and curls his lips upward. “I don't bite, you know?”

His forehead brushes over Barry's as he pulls him to himself, and he nearly flinches at how hot he is.

“God, you're burning.”

Barry attempts a nonchalant giggle. “And feeling like it.”

When his eyes find Leonard's, they're glossy but _very_ vigilant. They're breathing each other's breaths, mouths too dangerously close.

Leonard doesn't know what makes him cup Barry's damp face into his hand – or he _does,_ but would rather not think about it right now. His thumb traces the shape of Barry's cheekbone, wiping a few droplets of sweat. He feels the urge to kiss them away.

“You're running a fever,” he says softly, but Barry's laughs weakly and his fingers close around Leonard's wrist as he gazes pointedly into his eyes.

“I don't think it's that.”

Leonard has a pretty precise idea of what a stab feels like, so he immediately has a name for the piercing ache he feel in his chest.

He can't do this.

Barry isn't himself right now.

He isn't.

_He isn't._

“Go back to sleep.”

It hurts to say this. It hurts to take his hand from Barry's face and pull back, but it hurts even more when Barry chases him, curls his fingers over Leonard's neck and pulls his head back to rest against his.

“I don't think I can.”

And it's impossible for Leonard to move while he watches Barry close his eyes and lean forward with unmistakable intentions.

He wants this.

He wants this so damn much.

He just doesn't want it like this.

“Stop that.” He gently pushes him back, and Barry appears bewildered.

“I thought-”

“You thought correctly.” Leonard cups his face again. Resisting the urge to kiss him feels like the hardest thing he's ever done. “But I'm not gonna go anywhere with you while you're delirious with fever. Even I have principles.”

“I'm not-”

“You're an awful liar, kid.”

He says it with such affection that Barry smiles and the humiliation on his face drains, replaced by a shadow of hope.

“Can we try this again? When this is over, I mean.”

Leonard's breath catches in his throat. Sweet, lovable Barry: Leonard doesn't deserve him, but luckily he's selfish enough not to care.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, but says it in a way that implies he doesn't actually believe it will ever happen, and Barry, sick as he may be, doesn't miss this.

“I'm serious,” he insists.

“As in a date?”

“Yes.”

This is too funny to be real: Captain Cold and the Flash discussing _possibilities_ while a blizzard howls outside and the wooden walls of the cabin creak around them under the raging wind.

“You wanna go on a date with Captain Cold?” Leonard repeats, just to make sure.

Barry grins. “More like Captain Stone-Cold Fox.”

Leonard kind of wants to punch him.

“That was _terrible,”_ he snorts, but Barry's grin widens:

“I made you laugh.”

“Out of pity.”

“Still.”

Why is this so easy? Why is this so _good?_

Leonard scrutinises Barry like he's not sure who he is. The urge to kiss him is still there, still calling.

“You think you can pun your way to my cold, little heart so easily?” he inquires.

The face Barry makes – a peculiar mix of defiance and smugness – is both irritating and arousing.

“I think I don't need to do anything at all.”

“So presumptuous.” Leonard smirks. His thumb outlines the curve of Barry's lower lip. “And yet so accurate. Absolutely insufferable.”

Leonard keeps stroking his cheek. Slowly, Barry's lids start getting heavy; the softness of Leonard's voice rocks him, and no matter how he struggles to stay awake, he's too tired to win.

Leonard kisses his temple, lets him tuck his head under his chin and wraps his arms around him. Barry feels like a furnace in the icy temperature of the room.

As he falls asleep, Leonard bitterly wonders if Barry will even remember about this conversation when he wakes up.

  
  


*

  
  


When Barry comes to, he sees his breath condensed into puffs above his face. His face is cold, but the rest of him is pleasantly warm. His face burns and when he checks he finds rough spots under his fingertips; despite this, he feels reinvigorated, as if he's just been reborn, and he owes this to one single, unlikely person.

He sits up and something slips off him. Snart's parka.

Scattered memories from last night pop up in his memory like fireworks, loud and messy: words, gestures, confessions, _promises..._

He can't be sure he hasn't dreamed everything, because it's too good and too absurd to be true, but he can still feel the solid warmth of Leonard's chest beneath his face, his arms around himself, and he knows it wasn't a dream.

He rolls out of bed and heads to the other room with Snart's parka thrown on his shoulders. He can hear the fire crackling before he can feel its wonderful heat all over his body. Leonard is by the small counter, stirring a teaspoon into a cup. The air smells of coffee.

“Hey,” Leonard greets as soon as he noticed Barry standing a few feet behind him.

“Hey,” Barry greets back, a little dazed. He's bursting with feelings. He's had a thing for Snart since forever, and it was okay, as long as he knew it was one-sided, but now...

“Can we talk about what happened last night?”

The stirring stops. Leonard's shoulders tense.

“Nothing happened last night.”

That's the point, isn't it? Anything could have happened and nothing did.

“Exactly. You could have easily-” Barry moves a step forward and Snart turns around to pierce him with a glare.

“No, I couldn't.”

Barry kind of understands, but also kind of doesn't, and he _needs_ to understand, needs to know if Snart was being serious or just telling him what he wanted to hear.

“I _wanted_ that,” he insists, and the very thought of Snart pressed against him makes his head spin. “And you still-”

“You weren't yourself,” Snart cuts him off. His hands are gripping the edge of the counter, his face only partially turned, his eyes fixed on the floor. “And I'm one of those weirdos who can't get off on dubious consent.”

Barry blushes. Snart's blunt earnestness flatters him, though a part of him wants to tell him that he was _very_ sure of what he was doing. Still, Snart's thoughtfulness is so heart-warming that all he wants is to throw his arms around his neck and-

“Thank you,” he says, clearing his throat nervously. “For- for taking care of me without expecting anything in return.”

Snart straightens his back. When he turns, his fingers slowly slipping off the counter, there's a mischievous smirk on his lips.

“Who says I don't?”

Barry tries not to beam too blatantly. Snart being his usual, sassy self is a delicious turn-on and he has no reason to keep holding back.

“Is that so?”

There's a glimpse of shyness in the way Snart raises his eyes to Barry's.

“It's up to you, Scarlet,” he mutters. “I'm not _demanding._ I'm open to suggestions.”

Barry steps closer. “How about we start with that date?”

“Sounds reasonable.”

Their fingers brush. It sends a jolt of electricity across Barry's body and the _want_ from last night bolts awake, stronger and harder to resist.

“Snart,” Barry breathes, and he can barely move his lips without them touching Snart's. Snart – the little shit – chuckles.

“Barry.”

“I- I kinda-” The _need_ pooling at the pit of Barry's stomach is so overwhelming he has a hard time putting the words together. “Can I-?”

Snart's eyes twinkle. “You _may.”_

Barry doesn't ever care that Snart has the nerve to mock his grammar when he's being basically being _begged_ for a kiss. He wouldn't care if the ground beneath his feet was collapsing to swallow them into an endless pit, honestly, because, all of a sudden, Snart is _kissing him_ and whatever else mattered before doesn't seem remotely important or even slightly relevant, now.

Barry isn't ever sure he's _breathing._

The touch of Snart's lips is so unexpectedly soft that Barry hears himself utter a cry of surprise, his whole body trembling under the sudden sensorial overload of having Snart's hands so gently cupped around his face, holding him still as his mouth kisses his breath away, destroys whatever's left of Barry's rationality with a nip of his teeth and the tip of his tongue teasing, but not quite demanding, for a brief, tentative access.

Barry whimpers. He's never felt anything so deeply and so intensely as he's feeling this.

It's like learning to kiss all over again, like he's never been kissed before. The way Snart slowly pulls back and angles his head, watching Barry from under his lashes, sends a shock of pleasure down Barry's spine that has Barry paralysed and shaking. There's the ghost of a smirk – soft, so very soft – on Snart's lips before he leans in and, almost shyly, kisses Barry again – just a peck, a barely perceptible brush, so tender and intimate that Barry, head spinning, needs to cling to Snart's wrists to ground himself.

His knees are embarrassingly weak.

“Snart,” he pants feebly as Snart's mouth descends towards his jaw, follows its sharp line until it meets the lobe with a gentle nip and a grin Barry can _feel_ over his skin. “Snart, I-”

“I'm listening,” Snart purrs, his tone so frustratingly defiant that for a split second Barry thinks he should shove him away, but then Snart starts kissing his neck, and it's such a languid, maddening sensation that Barry's brain blackouts and suddenly there is only _this_ – this and Leonard's fingertips ghosting down Barry's throat, rough callouses leaving a wake of goosebumps wherever they skim, touch, seek. With his chest tightening from the blinding pleasure rushing through his veins, Barry absently thinks of the mark Leonard's lips are going to leave on his neck and his arousal spikes, blurring his sight for a moment. He shuts his eyes, panting heavily, hands haphazardly curling around Snart's head – to urge him, to hold on to him... he doesn't really know. As of now, he can barely remember his own name.

“Still with me, Scarlet?” he hears Snart ask. The loss of the warmth of Snart's mouth on his neck makes Barry shiver, the cool air around them feeling like ice on the wet spot Snart just abandoned in favour of returning to Barry's eye level, lips red and obscenely slick.

Barry swallows at Snart's blown pupils, wondering what he must look like himself, flushed and breathless and _hungry, _if Snart can see how desperate he is for _more._

It's damn cold in here, but he doesn't care. His fingers linger on the buckle of Snart's belt, and he waits, panting, and Leonard, panting, nods, and the thrill this simple gesture sends down Barry's spine nearly drives him blind.

“Bed,” Snart breathes, and Barry's mind blacks out.

Bless that bed.

Snart was so right: they're _so_ lucky there _is_ one.

  
  


*

  
  


When Barry gets back to the lab in the early evening, Caitlin and Cisco are so busy arguing that they don't even see him.

“It's all you fault, your stupid comms are so cheap that a little cold-”

“You should have known Barry couldn't stand those temperatures! Why did you even let him go?”

Barry pushes his mask off and waves up a hand.

“Guys?”

The yelling dies. Caitlin and Cisco turn in unison toward him and their faces are so happy and relieved that, just for one second, Barry regrets not coming back sooner instead of... staying with Snart. The guilt vanishes at once as he thinks back of how he spent the day.

“Barry!” Caitlin pulls him into a crushing hug. “We were so worried! What happened? Where have you-” She trails off as her eyes set on a very precise spot just below his jaw. She scowls. “What happened to your neck?”

“Cold,” Barry shrugs, and Cisco furrows his brows suspiciously.

“That doesn't look like frostbite, man.”

Barry zips to one of Cailtin's drawers to get a handful of protein bars. God, he's _starving._

He rips one open with his teeth and, smirking impishly, bites off a big chunk.

“Never said it was.”

**Author's Note:**

> Aaand here's the most tropey fanfic ever! I wanted this to be a Yuletide fic but that would have been _too many_ tropes, if that is even possible. So take what you get.
> 
> Please, do share your opinions, I love reading your comments and, believe it or not, they help me keep writing! (Unless you don't want me to keep writing, in that case feel free to let me know.) (I won't listen, because writing is my life, but you can still try.)


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